


Yours, Ichabod: Letters of Love and Lust between the Captain and the Lieutenant

by CreepingMuse, JWAB



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Epistolary ficlets, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-18 00:24:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2328539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreepingMuse/pseuds/CreepingMuse, https://archiveofourown.org/users/JWAB/pseuds/JWAB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of more than 100 letters, originally posted on the Tumblr blog Yours, Ichabod between the first and second seasons of Sleepy Hollow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When I pledge myself to you, Abbie, it is in the unabashed manner the Morning gives itself: eagerly, with perfect Release.

When I assure you I am Yours, it is in the wild manner the Night is Yours: entirely, without a Trace of Reserve.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

I would have achieved much more in my Research today, I am certain, were it not for the blissfully recurrent Memory of your thighs.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

From the first time its Sweetness passed my lips, I earnestly believed nothing could taste so Ambrosial as Chocolate. Yet in this, I am the happy fool, for now I know that to taste  _Chocolate_ , salted with sweat from your Skin, is to sup on the food of the Gods. 

Yours, 

Ichabod.

* * *

 

I fear, Abbie, that my startled cough did not aptly convey my Delight when you discovered the Rigidness concealed within my coat and, wrapping your delicate Fingers around me, you whispered, “Dibs.”

However, were you to seek out my humble Cottage these several hours later, I would vigorously confirm your sweet Dibs and, as you have so charmingly modeled, stake Dibs of my own.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

This morning, I recalled with great Fondness the first time I lowered my Head between your Silken Thighs. You started in alarm, questioning how I knew about  _that._

I did grin, rakishly, I hope, and brought my Face toward your hidden Treasure. “My dearest Miss Mills,” I said, pausing to lap at your gathering Dew, “there is nothing new under the Sun.”

Should you wish discover more Old tricks together, please call ‘round once your Duties have concluded.

Yours,

Ichabod. 

* * *

If you awaken and find these lines, be not Alarmed by my absence. I have merely Ventured Forth in this last hour of night on a Quest to discover the treat you crave Most of all. (I suspect, in light of your reaction to the delectably messy Chocolate Donut Caper, that you favor instead the Apple Fritter.)

Do not doubt that I shall return before the sunrise, for no sight in the Heavens nor on this rich, fine Earth rivals the swell of your Breast, kissed by dawn’s glow.  

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

There is a Journey too glorious to be charted on any map. It begins with the flowing rivers of Your hair, and eases Southward, through beautiful ridges and split canyons. It joyously passes through luminous brown Hills, each Summitted with a precious Peak. South, and south again, ‘cross smooth, rippling plains to the truest of Paradises: a secret Cavern, where true Bliss resides.

Should it be Agreeable, I wish to traverse this Blessed terrain—perhaps Several times—upon Our next meeting.

Yours, 

Ichabod. 

* * *

 

:)

A.M.

Miss Mills,

I find myself Delighted with the Parting Gift which accompanied your missive, as red and fragrant as any Rose. But surely you had need of your Undergarments today?

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

In the throes of sweet Release you Wilted upon my chest, your skin glistening with Exertion in the morning Light. You pressed a Kiss just over my heart and paused to feel it flutter against your Mouth.

Even in this Age of Wonders, nothing but my Poor Mind may record this perfect Moment. And so I revisit it again and yet again, my Breath catching once more at the Suggestion of your Lips upon my skin.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

For you have Minerva’s cunning Mind,

And Diana’s wild spirit.

For you are Endowed with the bountiful compassion of Ceres,

And the bountiful Joys of Venus.

For, like Vesta, you are my Home.

But above all these Celestial gifts, my Goddess,

I treasure you for your own Radiant Heart.

 

Yours, Ichabod.


	2. Chapter 2

Crane, I get that the shower freaked you out. And I’m not trying to push you, because you’re right, a bath works just as well. I’m just saying, a shower can be nice when it’s taken _cooperatively_.

A. M.

I am loathe to appear fearful of Plumbing, and yet I hasten to counter that, were you amenable to an Experiment, I might prove how very Pleasurable a bath may be – for Two.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

Every angry word spoken between us does Injury to my Soul; every quarrel leaves me bereft. But when we reunite as we did last eve, with forgiving hearts and Fevered bodies, I find myself rather looking forward to Our next row.

Yours,

Ichabod. 

* * *

 

Crane,

There’s this thing you do when you’re reading and you’re really focused: you brace your elbow on the table, or on your knee, and you let your fingers fall against your palm — all but your index finger, which you brush against your lip, lightly, back and forth.

It doesn’t matter if we’re under the gun, doesn’t matter what supernatural evil is breathing down our necks. When you do that, I have to stop and watch. It’s straight up porn.

A. M.

* * *

 

On multiple occasions, you have Accused me of obfuscation, circumlocution, and sesquipedalianism. More than once, You have Entreated me to ‘spit it out already.’ Now let me speak my deepest Truth in the plainest tongue I know:

I love you.

Forever yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

Crane,

Morales was snooping through my desk and found one of your letters. He’s torn between pouting and trying to embarrass me. At first I thought maybe we should keep things more on the down low, but you know what? Fuck that. Morales, I HOPE you’re reading this. I still have aaaaallll those sexts you sent me, so you’d best watch yourself.

A.M.

PS, Crane, remind me to show you those texts sometime. 

PPS, Morales, for future reference, it’s spelled “nipples.” 

* * *

 

Miss Mills,

I have returned from the Farmer’s Faire, my basket laden with – shockingly expensive, but happily _Untaxed_ – freshly pick’d vegetables, herbs, and one Dozen chicken eggs. When your Exercises have ceased, please deliver a Text. I would be honored to prepare an Aumelette for you at your abode.

Yours,

Ichabod.

Crane,

Still weak-kneed (not from the run). The countertop may beat the back wall of the cabin as my favorite place.

Sorry about the eggs. And your boots.

A. M.

Miss Mills,

While I do share your Enthusiasm for your Ideally Heighted Countertop, let us not be hasty. I propose a Thorough tour of each Residence, with frequent and varied Tests on all appropriate Surfaces, before a Winner is chosen.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

Crane,

I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t in this with me. Our lot may suck, but you make me feel lucky.

A. M.

* * *

 

Will you think less of me, dearest Abbie, if I confess that when you first divulged your Desires, I was frightened? That even as you fastened the Knots about my wrists and ankles, my heart pounded like cannonfire? As ever, you soothed my baseless fears: “Trust me,” you entreated, and so I did.

I once thought Freedom to be the highest order of Mankind. But now, having been the willing Subject of your sweet Tyranny, I know there is bliss to be found in Captivity. Ever shall I bend the knee to You.

Though, if you wish to seek similar  _Enlightenment_ within the bonds of love, I should gladly prove myself your equal in splendid Torment. 

Yours, 

Ichabod.

* * *

 

Crane, today with the Capt., you were pointing out demon activity on that map. You were probably saying something important too, but all I could think of was your long, gorgeous fingers, curling inside me again and again.

So if there was something I needed to know from that meeting, fill me in. Thx.

A.M.

* * *

 

The Whole of me, every inch, yearns for you. Is’t possible for skin to thirst? Only moments past your Departure, I am desperate again.

What ever may sate me? Hour upon ecstatic hour we devour each other; like Rum for a drunkard, it is never enough. I must rehearse every luscious curve, must savour your Intoxicating nectar. With exquisite hunger I wait: draw me Inside, devour me again and let me die – once, a thousand times – upon your perfect Breast.

Entirely yours,

Ichabod.


	3. Chapter 3

Miss Mills,

It pains me that I have not the standing to intervene in recent altercations with the new Captain, although you continue to bear them with Equanimity. Truly she has chosen you, like a very Job, as her target for all manner of Petty slights.

Dedicated Exertion may dissipate your Frustration; however, I pray you reconsider your visit to the Armoury, as is your wont on such a trying day. Join me, instead, in the shaded Thicket that grows along the river, where the maples give way to a Lilac copse – a bare quarter of a mile from here, yet cozily secluded. Surrounded by their Heady scent I would replace harm with bliss, dedicating our shared Exertion to your sweet Release.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

I was christened Ichabod in Shame. “Inglorious,” I was called, for, like my otherwise unnoteworthy Hebrew namesake, I stole my Father’s glory when I took my Sainted Mother from his side.

Yet on your Lips, my cursèd name becomes music. Whether whispered in Love or screamed in Ecstasy, your tender esteem makes me the most Glorious of men. 

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

 

For what do we toil, Lieutenant? For what do we fight? For God’s unique Earth, a cornucopia of Wonders. Yet nothing in Creation – not the exotic orchid, nor the delicate butterfly, nor the mighty, wild Atlantic – _nothing_ rivals the majesty of your Stupendous Posterior. Rising sun-burnished above beloved Silken Thighs, astounding twin curves beckon. The Moon in her orbit pales, shamed by the perfection of your Heavenly fundament.

I am at a Loss, my callypigian Beauty, to discover how I deserve to worship Luna herself, in the very Flesh. Nevertheless, I accept the Priestly mantle and vow to laud your Abundance with tireless devotion.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

I hope this morning finds you well, and that you are much recovered from last evening’s Exertions. I remain in awe that the female body, obviously the Creator’s more clever invention, can enjoy such Repeated carnal Pleasures. I admit to taking wicked Pride, and feeling no small share of envy, as you were transfixed with transcendent Joy, your Wave cresting and breaking, only to crest and break once more. And once more. And then again. 

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

Each morning I awake and feast upon the sight of your Visage in repose, far lovelier than any angel Raffaelo e’er designed. But your supine Form turns my thoughts from the celestial to the Urgently corporal. I long to Rouse you from your slumber with sweet kisses, to ensure your first words of the new day are Gasps of Delight.

I forfend, for your rest trumps my Wanton desire. But how I do Dream. 

Yours,

Ichabod.

 

Crane,

I’ll sleep when I’m dead.

A.M.

* * *

 

Crane,

Want to know where my brain is today? Cause it sure as hell isn’t on my work.

I just keep seeing you last night, the way your lips were a little swollen and your hair fell around my face when you came. I keep thinking about how it’s changed since the beginning – how you used to get this look around your eyes like it hurt (good hurt, but still). Now this kind of blissed out, smooth expression comes over you, like you’re savoring it. Like you’re memorizing it.

Like you finally get that you belong here.

A. M.

 

My Abbie: I am, and I have. With you.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

It has been hours since our Illicit  _Rendezvous_ , and my heart still races. If the Captain had returned from luncheon unexpectedly and discovered us in such a Compromising position—and on her Desk, no less!—her wrath would have been terrible to behold. And yet that  _frisson_ of Fear only made our secret Tryst all the Sweeter, and I find myself considering every shadowed corner, vacant office, and storeroom with newfound Curiosity…

Yours,

Ichabod. 

* * *

 

My Dearest Abbie,

You are my North Star o’er an uncertain sea. When night seems darkest, You guide me with Patience and Constancy. When the umbrous swells of my own heart Threaten to capsize my precarious vessel, You calm the waters and set me upon the proper course. For as long as You shine in my Sky, I need never Fear.

Faithfully Yours,

Ichabod.  

* * *

 

Please accept, my dearest, this Incomplete bouquet. Gathered from riverbank and meadow, these Blossoms reveal a message.

Wild daffodils sing of my regard for you. Yellow sorrel, my affection. White clover, in hope you think of me. All surrounded by sprigs of honeysuckle, for I am bound to you.

And yet this sunrise collection is indeed Incomplete, for there is no flower whose meaning can convey the Exquisite longing I feel when our bodies part. No brazen bloom may tell how desperately I wish to bury myself inside you, again and again.

Yours in agony,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

When first I awoke from my Long slumber, I looked with Distaste at the Horseman’s gift: the monstrous Scar upon my breast. But now, when you trace its raised lines with Lips and Tongue, I recall that without that cruel blow, We two would have forever been separated by years and circumstances, and it becomes Beautiful in my sight.

Yours,

Ichabod.


	4. Chapter 4

I find myself flushed with Wanton desire at the simple Recollection of you eating a strawberry. Your lips parted for its red, plump Tip and you sucked at its sweetness with evident pleasure as a droplet of its juice trailed down your finger.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

Miss Mills,

Do Forgive me, but I must beg your pardon and send my regrets for our Engagement this evening. After our skirmish with the Banshee of Bunker Hill, I ache to my very bones and fear I would prove poor Company indeed. I hope to make Amends for my unmannerly cancellation in the near future.

Yours,

Ichabod.

 

Crane,

That’s too bad. I ran out at lunch for a bottle of massage oil. Thought maybe I could help you work some of the kinks out, but if you’re not up to it, I understand.

A.M.

 

Miss Mills,

Ah, but God smiles upon His Witnesses; I find myself quite miraculously Revived. Did we settle upon Seven of the clock, then?

Yours,

Ichabod.  

* * *

 

Each time I take up my pen, I Despair. My head overflows with a bounty of Words, but O! Language is a mean, clumsy thing, wholly unsuited to describe my abiding Affection. For Our love Eclipses all the tongues in all the world and becomes Nature itself: You are the very beat of my Heart, the song of my Soul, the ache of my Body.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

Crane,

Think your beard gave me a rug burn on my thigh. Not mad about it, though.

A.M.

 

Miss Mills,

As ever, I am Loathe to cause you the slightest twinge of Pain, even to achieve such Pleasurable ends. Pray, permit me to Attend your delicate distress. I shall salve Your wounds with Kisses, and apply gentle Caresses as healing balm.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

Our Creator must look upon us and roar with Mirth. What Mismatched creatures He chose as Champions! I, long and lumbering, you, diminutive and Lush. Yet in His infinite Wisdom, still our Bodies marry together as if they were constructed for that Purpose alone. ‘Tis true, from time to time we must pay heed to the Trigonometry of our Love, but these considerations merely spur us to ever Greater heights of creativity and Joy.

Yours,  
Ichabod.

* * *

 

Crane,

That thing you did with your tongue last night? I don’t know where the hell you learned that, but Jesus, am I glad you did.

A.M.

 

Miss Mills,

For long hours I toiled in my tiny chambers at Oxford, torturing my Tongue as I attempted to perfect the dreaded  _Alveolus Trill_ to please my Master of Greek. I fear my command of the Classical language never reached his exacting standards, but I am Gratified my hard work and dedication have at last yielded practical, and Pleasurable, results.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

 

At times it seems Impossible to determine which Facet of you I adore most of all. Is it your fierce Warrior mien, when you stalk darkened tunnels with Pistol in hand, your lines elegant and strong? Is it the Compassion that creeps through your hardened Façade when you speak to the weak and the downtrodden? Or is it the radiant Woman who laughingly draws me to her bed?

No, my Dearest. It is the whole of you, every splendid Contradiction and Exquisite flaw. I love you for your Whole Self, and ever shall.

Yours,

Ichabod. 

* * *

 

Lieutenant,

After our _duel_ last evening, I am moved to pay happy Homage once more to your Exquisitely Deft handling of a _Pistol_.

Yours,

Ichabod.

 

Crane, I’m just glad you’ve embraced the whole multiple rounds thing. :)

A. M.

* * *

 

Thank you, Miss Mills, for a truly glorious Fourth. A day such as today was what we fought for in the trenches of Valley Forge; what we dreamed of as the Snow fell thick upon us and our coats turned to holes. It was the promise of a day such as this that kept us stumbling Forward in our marching; that bolstered our flagging Courage as we were branded Traitor and Turncoat. But oh, it was worth every drop of Blood for a day such as this: A day of Freedom, of Independence, of Joy. Of Laughing children and Soldiers honoured; of waving flags and stirring music.

But for all the pomp and all the Celebration of my Compatriots, I cherish the simple memory of you and I, seated in the soft grass, our Fingers entwined as we watched the flames of Freedom ignite above our heads, your Face aglow with child-like Wonder.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

While I expected ever to favor the tenor Viol’s melancholic strains over all other music, I was transfixed by the private Concert you gave from the shower as I emerged from sleep’s gentle embrace. Your lustrous voice is Nature’s most evocative, perfect Instrument. The memory of your singing these many hours later continues to stir me.

Yours,

Ichabod.


	5. Chapter 5

Crane,

Plz pick up milk on your way home. Thx.

A.M.

 

My Abbie,

If You asked it of me, I would walk the world over to bring You a particular blossom from the farthest reaches of Cathay. I would fight a hundred demons to procure a single  _Donut Hole_ for Your delectation. To that end, I have gladly obtained Your jug of milk, and await Your next whim with joyful anticipation.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

Admittedly, I am fond of my old Greatcoat. It has served me well, as soldier, spy, and Witness; it gave me Succor through battles and bloodshed. Yet my dearest memory is of you, wearing only that Tattered garment, its rough wool coaxing your nipples to attention, your curled hair just Winking from its heavy folds. Your Beauty nearly struck me dumb as you drew me into a scratchy, intimate Embrace.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

Crane,

Look, I’m nowhere near as good with words as you are. I’m even chickenshit enough to write this instead of trying to say it. But you know, right? The way I feel about you? 

A.M.

 

My Precious Abbie,

While in my more Uncharitable moments I may wish I heard those three words fall from your Lips with more regularity, I quickly recall that you need not speak the sentiment, for you Live it in your every action toward me.

When I enter a room and you Smile as though the Sun has just peeked through the clouds, I know. When you stand Tall before me and attempt to Shield me from the Captain’s scolding, I am reassured. And when Your face shines down at me as We move together as one, there can be no Doubt.

Fret not, my dearest, for I shall speak the words enough for two: I love you, I love you, I love you.

Yours in Ardor,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

Officer Stevens marveled at your “great intuition” this afternoon, as if it were an Unexplainable psychic phenomenon. I did bristle at his slur, for Intuition is not, as some say, a Sixth Sense. Rather, it is the confluence of your God-given Five and your finely-honed Sensitivity. I know this to be true now more than ever, because I am the Fortunate nightly beneficiary of your Gifts.

In my arms, your actions so perfectly Mirror my desires that you seem to Read my very thoughts. I see you listen, bending your ear to my every groan and hiss. You feather fingertips over my hungry skin, watching me with tender care, judging which stroke, which spot when suckled will elicit goose flesh.

Your painstaking research – I would not underestimate it with the name Intuition — so nearly transcends mundane awareness as only to _appear_ Clairvoyant.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

Crane,

I was thinking today about our first kiss. No, not that one, though it’s definitely a kiss worth thinking about. But I mean our  _first_ kiss. It was right after we kicked that Wendigo’s ass. You’d fallen, and I offered you a hand. You took it, but even once you were up, you didn’t let go. You held it a little too long, and I was about to pull away, but then you bent and  _just_  brushed your lips across the back of my hand. I barely felt the pressure, but it was like I had my finger in a socket. “Exemplary fighting, Miss Mills,” you said, so close I could feel your breath. “I find myself in your debt once more.”

I kind of froze, and the moment passed and we were on corpse disposal duty. But I’ll never forget how you could totally undo me with the softest, sweetest kiss.

A.M.

* * *

 

Miss Mills,

Please explain the purpose of this strange Tube of unguent newly taken up residence in my chest of drawers. The sharp Sting and wintry Breath upon my wrist verify it is no healing Salve.

Yours,

Ichabod.

 

Crane,

Hint: it doesn’t go on your wrist.

Be home in ten. WAIT FOR ME.

A.M.

* * *

 

I scribble these inadequate Lines to assure you of my Constancy.

Do not doubt that I share your frustration in today’s disappointments and bear Thrice your portion of blame (your protestations notwithstanding). Would that you had not departed in silent self-recrimination, we two could Analyze the faults in our plan side by side and provide one another succor in this dark Hour.

Please know that you need never hide from me – not your wild, triumphant Joy nor your deepest Regret. I am your stalwart partner. I will never abandon you.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

I am accustomed to towering o’er you. I know precisely how far I must bend—and how much you must raise—for our Lips to meet, and exactly how low my arm must dip to encircle your Waist. Yet I do Cherish those brief, vertiginous moments when it is you who Rises above, your head thrown back in Rapture. Again and again you Ensheathe me as I gaze up in worshipful Adoration.

After, once the Ecstasy has passed, we lie together, side by side, at last equals in Height as we perpetually are in Love.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

Crane,                                                                   

I was iffy about letting you sketch me at all, let alone in the nude. I didn’t expect to like it so much.

Once I finally relaxed, there was something about the way you studied me, totally intense and appreciative, that I still can’t get over. By the time you put down the sketch book and kissed me, my skin (and everything else) was on fire and… well, you know the rest.

Point is, I’ve changed my mind: let’s call that the _first_ time _,_ not the last, that we do that.

A.M.

 

Miss Mills,

It is a vision I will ne’er forget: sheet-draped, kissed by candlelight, you were Aphrodite herself. Giggles of bashful excitement cascaded from your nervous lips, in counterpoint with your resplendent Glory.

I scraped charcoal across Luxurious paper, privileged to Echo curve after enticing curve. As my gaze swept your skin, my own body ached for yours. I’m afraid I may have rushed the finishing touches, so desperate was I to trace your lips with my tongue.

(My heart swells to know of your Pleasure, and I accept your invitation with eager anticipation.)

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

 

Abbie,

As an exercise of Memory, I set out to determine the moment when first I Loved you. I sifted through my memories with Diligence. Certainly the moment lay long before I  _knew_ I loved you, which was a rather late Discovery to us Both. Back and back I cast my mind. Was it when I feared I should lose you, when I clutched you tight in Purgatory? Was it the moment you held my hand as I awaited Death’s poisonous Embrace? Perhaps that glorious day of  _Baseball_ , when we Laughed more than I had in many a year? No. I ventured deeper into the annals of my mind before I found the precise moment my heart Knew yours.

When first we met, I was rather a Prig. Yet when you took me to that God-forsaken Motel, you did not abandon me. Even as I railed at you for my Captivity, even as I assaulted you with impertinent Queries, you stayed. With your  _Sticky Notes,_ you assiduously labeled every modern “Convenience” in that wretched room. Though you mourned your dear Sheriff, you still found Compassion enough to aid a Stranger, and to see the world through his Bewildered eyes. When I awoke the next morning, I knew that no matter what Wonders and Horrors the day might bring, I would not be Alone.

With each new Day since, my Love for you has Grown. But its Genesis lay in scraps of Paper and an act of Kindness in a long, dark Night.

Gratefully yours,

Ichabod.


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

Miss Mills,

As I completed my  _toilette_ this morning, I discovered a perfect bruise in the shape of your Lips upon my neck. I choose to bear this mark with Honour as my lady’s Token. Even so, I believe I shall keep my coat buttoned today, despite the summer’s Heat.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

It was a rainy, shitty morning. Had to be in court early and the driver got off anyway. Setback in that case with the kid (she can’t stay with that wackjob but the judge refuses to see it). Spilled hot coffee on my jeans. There was more – you don’t need the whole list. Just, I was seriously considering heading back to bed.

Instead, I stopped by the archive. You sat at the table, three giant books open in front of you, totally absorbed. You didn’t even look up, just held your hand out for me. When I took it, you pulled me in and folded me onto your lap. You pressed a kiss into my shoulder and kept reading.

Bet you didn’t even know it, but you gave me the strength to go kick this stupid day in the teeth.

A.M.

* * *

 

Abbie,

While it was somewhat startling when first you wended your Fingers through my tresses and gave a sharp, brief pull, I now Understand that the bright flash of pain is rather like Applause. When I feel that Tug, I seek to perform an Encore, working tirelessly to elicit the same Response again and again.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

 

Your Love is the most improbable Gift I shall ever know. The very Centuries conspired against us, making our meeting itself a sweet Paradox. Yet still the obstacles piled upon themselves, Countless in number: our Temperaments are as dissimilar as two could be; our lives’ Histories share not the slightest commonality; in my own time, the very pigments of our Skin would have forbade our association.

Yet our love knows no impediment, and each day, we Recommit ourselves to our own perfect Impossibility.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

Miss Mills,

I offer my humblest apologies for my abominable behavior last evening. Were it possible to erase the past, I would scratch away not only the harshness of my tone, but my refusal of any new raiment as well. My failure was of imagination as much as composure, for I must admit that these Silken Pajama Bottoms are surely made of the stuff of Heaven. It is as if I have draped o’er myself the very clouds above.

I await you wearing nothing but your generous, much maligned Gift.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

Cloaked yet in the deepest night, what voluptuous caresses teased my mind from slumber. Such unexpected Luxury to be awakened with kisses, as your lips left fevered Yearning in their wake. Your Skilled fingers led me into the whirlwind of your ready desire, and I happ’ly, if drowsily, rose to the

Let others waste the darkness in Morpheus’ cradle. I will gladly trade a thousand sleeping hours for one waking dream in your Embrace.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

~~Sweetheart~~

~~Dulcinea~~

~~Turtledove~~

~~Mignon~~

~~Darling~~

~~Beatrice~~

~~Cabbage~~

~~My heart~~

~~My only~~

~~My~~ Abbie

No  _Nom de Coeur_ could ever be so lovely or so apt as your own True name.

Yours,

Ichabod.

 

Crane,

That’s real sweet. But seriously: cabbage?

A.M.

* * *

 

Please convey my apologies to your Friend for my taciturn comportment, and please accept my most heartfelt Gratitude. Truly, I was most pleased to make her acquaintance and to meet her new Joy, but the sight of such a fair, fat babe nearly flattened me with Grief.

I spoke not a word, yet you Knew. In all your Wisdom, you did not offer hollow platitudes or cold comfort; you simply took my Hand and held it with all your considerable Might.

While my heart will ever Ache for the life I left behind, I know with increasing Certitude that I belong here, now, with You.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

When all this is over, let’s go to Maui. A little sun worshipping, a few piña coladas, skinny dipping after dark…

A.M.

 

Miss Mills,

Having put aside my Work to research your brief yet incomprehensible Epistle within the Library of Google (and would that I might consult that Marvel upon your frequent opaque pronouncements), I can finally report that I heartily Approve of your suggestion.

Ah, but your Hopefulness buoys my spirits. Abbie, I would relish nothing more than to observe you fashion yourself a Pacific priestess of Ra, sip the nectar of the Tropics’ thorny Rose, and float with you upon mild midnight Waves, your warm skin kissed by cool moonlight.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

Miss Mills,

It was inevitable that your Sister should learn of our Courtship, and indeed, as you will recall, I urged you to bring her into your confidence long ago. While you struggle to reforge strained familial Bonds, I understand your reticence to divulge your Secrets. However, I am confident that Candor will do much to heal old wounds.

Still, I do hope she tires of her incessant  _Double Entendres_  sooner rather than later…

Yours,

Ichabod.

 

Abs,

Was it a  _long, hard_ secret to keep?

—j

 

Crane,

Not likely.

A.M.


	7. Chapter 7

Such intriguing Mysteries hide within you, Abbie.

Daily, you wield control with a firm stare, a steady tone, and when called for, with the Threat of your excellent aim. In the service of Justice, you wrest power even from the most Herculean opponent.

And yet taken by amorous Caprice, what exquisite delight you found last evening in Acquiescence.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

 

Miss Mills,

It was only days after I was reborn into this so-called “digital age” when I discovered that the Wonders of technology had been applied to Prurient purposes. I assure you, I have Assiduously avoided these ephemeral dens of Iniquity, but it does occur to me that such images could be Inspirational when viewed in tandem. If such an activity would not sully your chaste and virginal Mind, of course.

Yours,

Ichabod.

 

Crane,

Oh, I’m good and sullied, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Let’s curl up with the laptop tonight. I’ll introduce you to some of my favorite dens of iniquity.

A.M.

* * *

 

Do you recall when I awoke in the dead of night, seized by the terrible realization that we had neglected to make account of your Feminine calendar? Fully three weeks had elapsed since the Consummation of our desire, and with unceasing Abandon we yet nightly returned to Cupid’s bower. What utter carelessness! You took my hand in yours, a kind and knowing Smile curling your lips, while patiently you elucidated the sublime Technology by which ardent lovers may now strum Love’s mandolin under both the waxing and waning Moon: _Birth Control Pills_.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

Crane,

Good luck today. Sorry I can’t be there, but it’s gonna be fine. Deep breaths.

A.M.

 

Miss Mills,

Your Warnings in no way prepared me for the Horrors I faced. Crammed into a tilted chair, a strange woman poking plastic-clad fingers into my mouth and jabbing at my gums with a metal hook and waxed twine—it is Torture of the highest degree. I owe Mr. Revere an apology for disparaging his Dentistry. At least he had the common Courtesy to offer his patients a mug of Grog before they were subjected to his prodding. 

Still, the warm Sentiment of your note, tucked into the pocket above my Heart, helped me bear these grave oral Indignities with equanimity. In thanks, please accept this sweetie, given me by the  _Dental Hygienist_ as proof of my good health.

Yours, 

Ichabod.

* * *

 

 

Miss Mills,

Our daily sparring bouts are critical to our eventual victory as Witnesses, and yet my mind does, on occasion, wander to less Martial subjects. How could it not? You are the loveliest of Amazons, as graceful as you are fierce. The tremendous Tension of your muscles as you Coil to attack is purest Poetry, surpassed only by the manner in which you then Explode into a controlled frenzy of destruction.

How I long to Taste the sweat Glowing from your skin, to feel the the Strength in your arms as you clutch me closer. Yet to suggest such a thing at such a time is to risk your Wrath, so I admire in silence. 

My perpetual distraction comes at a cost, but a few bruises and my wounded Pride are acceptable casualties in the face of such devastating Beauty.

Yours,

Ichabod. 

* * *

 

I believe I love nothing so much as your many smiles, Abbie.

I do Cherish your rare, carefree smile, gently brush’d with Mirth, as the gardener does the first blushing Rosebud of newest Summer. The sudden smile which in Surprize o’ertakes you is as sweetly intoxicating as Elderberry Wine.

When you turn your teasing grin on me, that which begins in sly Wisdom at your eyebrow and only moments later tugs at the corner of your Lips, my desperate heart beats against the bars of its Cage.

And yet, perhaps there is one expression I love more: When you set your gaze upon me, your mouth freshly kiss’d and awaiting my Lips’ return, your face remade by Eros himself – _then_ I am utterly undone.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

Miss Mills,

One of the unexpected Blessings of my sojourn in the twenty-first century has been the vast expansion of my Vocabulary. The ongoing ingenuity of Language never ceases to astound, and I find myself plucking words from common Conversation and saving them like a Dragon hoards gold:  _crotchety, spork, woozy, badonkadonk, telephone, antidisestablishmentarianism,_ and my special favorite,  _assclown._

The last, of course, I learned from you. My greatest opportunities for semantic edification occur as I listen in rapt Awe as you both harangue and hearten your beloved  _Brooklyn Dodgers_. While some of the words themselves are quite Familiar to me, your endlessly Creative combinations of invectives are

breathtaking. I dare not write them, for fear their heat would Scorch this paper, but know they are noted and Appreciated nonetheless.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

 

Sure, I roll my eyes and get impatient sometimes, but I actually really like the way you talk – the flowery language, words I’ve never heard before, the precise way you make yourself understood (or, you know, don’t). I like that no one else talks the way you do.

Still, when we take our time, when I get you so riled up that you’re reduced to one syllable words – more, please, _yes_ … Yeah, I’m good with that, too.

A.M.

* * *

 

Even when you kneel at my feet, there can be no doubt who is the supplicant and who is the Queen. Ever Regal, you hold my gaze with tender affection even as I come undone at your slightest touch. Like a carnal Boudica, you use every weapon at your disposal to Conquer my body with your merciless Love.

When your common toil has ended, permit me, O  _Regina_ , to fall to my own knees and pay you the Tribute you so richly deserve.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

 

Abbie,

I have become something of a convert on the subject of Ladies wearing Trousers. It was disconcerting at first, yes, but their practicality, combined with repeated viewings of your perfect Posterior, hugged only by the thinnest layer of fabric, has brought me to the Light.

Yet your  _Little Black Dress_ (a charmingly literal appellation) has reminded me of the ample joys of Gowns. The garment clung to your every Curve, as if some fortunate painter had pasted it to your Skin. And oh, the sight of your immaculately sculpted Legs peeking from beneath its Scandalous hem, inviting visions of what lies beneath that Silken scrap of cloth….

Forgive me, but whatever point I was attempting to make has quite escaped me. It seems that regardless of what garments you don, my thoughts always return to Divesting you of them in the most expedient manner possible.

Yours,

Ichabod.  

* * *

 

Abbie, you deserve to have been wooed.

Had our association begun under kinder Circumstances, I would have noticed you from across a crowded hall, my gaze lingering just long enough to capture yours. My cheeks would have flushed Pink as I dipped my head in a slight bow. But you, ever curious and brazen, would no doubt have parted the sea of shoulders and skirts to ask my name.

“Ichabod Crane,” I would have whispered over your fingers as I held them to my lips, the familiar words catching in my throat.

We would have lingered over our courtship, savouring each sweet Hour. We would have walked beside the river, reciting beloved Poetry to one another, coyly hinting at our growing mutual desire. On a warm summer day, we would have hidden ourselves in forest shade. You would have tugged at my sleeve, leaning for support against a Birch as you invited my lips to the curve of your elegant neck.

Yours,

Ichabod.

 

And who says it had to be back in your day?

AM

 

Allow me to remedy my Error (and please forgive my inadequate grasp of Modern Courtship).

Eros’s swift arrow would already have Flown when I saw you in passing, daily entering or departing the Starbucks we both would have frequented. Queued in front of you one day and Emboldened by my morning’s session translating Ovid, I would have Surreptitiously purchased for you a Venti of coffee. Of course, you would have refused my offering outright, insisting that you could “damn well buy your own coffee.” But your gaze would have lingered long enough that I could Hazard one last “please.” And improving my Fortune beyond my Wildest fantasies, you would finally have joined me at a Corner Booth.

Imagine it, Abbie: the two of us, Unburdened by Fate, our lives stretching unknown before us. We would talk all afternoon and well into the night. Eventually, after winning your trust, you would bring me to a favorite Perch on a bridge above the Pocantico. We would lie back, staring up into the night’s glistening Canopy. Oblivious to your increasingly reciprocated Desire, I would wax Professorial about the constellations and the Myths of the Ancients until, with an impatient snort, you would press your Lips into mine.

Don’t you see? Whether in the present day, hundreds of years in the past, or I daresay hundreds of years hence, I will always be –

Yours,

Ichabod.


	8. Chapter 8

Crane,

Now that I’m back, I guess it’s safe to admit that I was a little nervous about leaving you on your own. I know it was just for two days, but…a lot can happen, you know? So I’m really glad all was quiet on the demon front, you’re still on speaking terms with the captain, and nothing inappropriate got microwaved.

The conference went really well, but the icing on the cake was your dirty little phone call. Ichabod Crane, even though you’ve been writing me these letters for a while now, I didn’t think you had it in you.

Hearing all those filthy words turn to poetry in your mouth made me miss you more and less at the same time. 

Anyway, now that I’m back, we need to play out some of that stuff we talked about—starting with that thing with the feather.

A.M.

* * *

 

You are hands down the most romantic guy I’ve ever been with. But I  _knew_  I’d find a full-on kink in there somewhere.

It was obvious, once I followed the clues (the sketching, our porn date).

You like to watch.

And now that I know…

AM

 

Abbie,

Nothing, not even your promissory note, could have prepared me for the Sight that awaited me upon returning to your abode this eve. Even before I laid eyes upon you, your husky Moan filled the air with Anticipation. Then, to round the corner and Espy you splayed on your bed, both hands dedicated to your own Pleasure—only then did I realize the Truth of your words.

You did not permit me to approach, but bade me sit and observe as three Fingers curled deep within you, as your thighs slicked with the evidence of your Desire, as you roughly Tugg’d at ruddy peaks. And the narration you provided through your lusty haze—it did test the very limits of my Forbearance. 

When you reached the pinnacle of Bliss, my name warm upon your lips, I could contain myself no longer. But oh, the Waiting only made the rejoining all the sweeter.

So yes, dear Abbie: When the performance is alluring as that, it is a pleasure to be a simple spectator.

Yours, 

Ichabod. 

* * *

 

Our excursion to the  _Movies_ was diverting, though certainly not due to the quality of the entertainments. In every way the experience is inferior to an evening at the Theatre, with poorly dressed denizens and sticky floors, to say nothing of the piece itself. Why, pray tell, was the inexplicably ambulatory tree only able to speak its own Name, while the just as inexplicably bipedal Raccoon was able to speak in full, vulgar Sentences? An incomprehensible Shambles from bow to stern.

Yet the darkness of the salon did serve a practical use. Your lips, dusted with salt from our _Popcorn_ , proved a delightful distraction from the blather of the play.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

Miss Mills, your exquisite kiss this morning has me hopelessly pre-occupied. The taste of Ceylon Spice upon your lip haunts my tongue even now. How I long to make of you a very Feast —

Franklin’s notes be damned. There’s nothing for it but to dabble in Truancy, wouldn’t you agree?

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

 

Betrayed I imagine by some errant Expression, you asked me this morning what was wrong. I did brush off your Concern, but as ever, my Oracle, you knew. That same near-crippling Doubt seized me once again: the worry that we two are very opposites, that we have no cultural Riches in common, that our lives bear only the smallest region of Overlap. I fear that the March of Technology is endless, and that you will eventually tire of explaining to me how to program a Microwave Oven, or use an Automated Teller Machine, or Report Spam. And I will never cease to long for my own world, wherein I might contribute to a collegial conversation some Jest derived, for instance, from an erotic interpretation of Goethe. A world in which my sphere of experience is Relevant, not only in matters of the Apocalyptic Supernatural.

But without even an admission on my part, you quelled my Anxiety. Stepping between my Thighs as I sat in your dining chair, my whispered name upon your delectable lips, you pressed your Breast against mine. You held me fast, fingers Entwined in my hair, as my heart Soothed to the rhythm of yours. In your sure Embrace, my grim musings fled.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

 

Abbie,

Do forgive me for disturbing your Rest, once again, with my terrified thrashing. No matter how frightful my nocturnal visions may be, your Arms tether me to the Earth and remind me what is Real and what is Good. Without you, I should be lost.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

Ever heard of a booty call, Crane?

AM

 

My frustration with today’s language notwithstanding, if I grasp your meaning correctly then you need only the say the word and we’ll take a turn in Cock Alley.

Yours,

I.

 

Are you talking about the horizontal cha-cha?

AM

 

There is no shame in speaking plainly, my dear: when you desire a plaster of warm guts, I’m your man.

Yours,

I.

 

All right then. I’m gunning for a hot beef injection.

AM

 

I am flush with embarrassment but will return with your evening meal in less than half an hour. My apologies, Miss Mills.

Yours,

I.

 

What? No. I’m down to fuck. Meet you at the archive in five.

AM

* * *

 

Crane,

Gotta bail on our plans. Cramps. I’m gonna curl up with a heating pad and a pint of chocolate ice cream.

A.M.

 

Miss Mills,

My deepest sympathies. If it is your desire, I shall leave you to mend in peaceful solitude, with my prayers for a hasty recovery. However, if I may offer a potential cure: It has been said that Intimate exertions can soothe even the most ferocious of Womanly Woes…

Speak the word, my darling, and I shall fly to your side and attend your Every need.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

_Salt_

_Purified water_

_Sage (harvested under a full Moon)_

_Diamonds, finely ground_

_Wings of Coleoptera beetle_

_Finger bones of a hanged man_

Crane, you were supposed to leave me the shopping list. I can’t get this stuff at the Buy Plus.

A.M.

 

Miss Mills,

Apologies. In my haste, I confused our Provisions requisition with the ingredients for a demonic binding Ritual. No matter, I shall visit the Market myself once I have located the Grave of a hanged Man.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

Abbie,

Over a Tipple of brandy, a colleague at Merton once shared a series of extraordinary Etchings. They depicted a massively beautiful Indian temple, riotously overtaken by carvings of Deities engaged in every aspect of Lovemaking. At the time, their poses seemed impossibly balletic, all twined limbs and unorthodox angles. I dismissed the plates as nothing more than fanciful Orientalism.

Until last night.

How did you bend your Lithe body into such improbable shapes? How did you know that their attainment would yield such Rare and unexpected bliss? The answers matter little—only that we continue to explore this new realm of Carnal possibilities.

Yours,

 Ichabod.

* * *

 

 

Abbie,

Today I had the very good fortune to make the acquaintance of your Neighbour, a Mrs. Rodriguez. I was returning from a brief promenade when the dear Lady hailed me in the hall. She asked if I often stayed with you, which I blushingly confirmed.

“That Abbie Mills is a good girl,” she said. “I’m glad you make her Happy. But could you ask her to pipe down a little with her happiness? Especially in the Middle of the night. I need my Rest, you know.”

My Flush increased a hundredfold, and I offered every Apology and assured Mrs. Rodriguez that indeed, we would be mindful of her slumber.

While I regret that we have disturbed our Neighbours, I shall ever cherish the sweet Symphony of your desire.

Yours,

Ichabod.


	9. Chapter 9

My time on a marine vessel was a mere six weeks, but to me and to many of my compatriots the Southern Route across the Atlantic seemed a hellish eternity. We hung in hammocks like so many bats, unhappy in our paltry Provisions among plentiful crates of inedible Munitions. Some were sick from the Roiling of the sea; the rest of us soon followed, brought low by the Stench.

For my part, I do not intend to mount the Prow of a Ship again in my unnaturally long lifetime. Not even one with so Mirthful a name as _Booze Cruise_.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

 

Abbie,

For a man who has Twice clawed his way out of a Grave, who has outlived by Centuries every familial and collegial association, who must daily Prevaricate to maintain any semblance of a plausible Life – what madness it would be for a man such as this to claim Good Fortune.

And yet I do, because of all the men in this World, you choose me.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

 

A while ago, you wrote me about the moment when you knew we were going to be more than partners. I’ve been thinking about that same thing. Today I was washing out that old black bra of mine and I realized: it was the Sandman.

I was ready to go alone. I need you to know that—I would have gone alone. And if you’d told me what you were going to do ahead of time, I’d have said no, thrown the bottle on the floor, anything to keep you from risking everything for me. So you did the dumb brave thing, like you always do, and you chugged that nasty tea just so I wouldn’t  _have_ to be alone. And you were as scared as I was—maybe more scared, especially when you found out about the scorpions—but you played it all off as a joke. And in that split second, when you told me there was no use arguing about it, I knew things were never gonna be quite the same.

A.M.

P.S. You pull a stunt like that again, I will kill you. FYI.

* * *

 

 

Running late. Be there when I can.

A.M.

 

Abbie,

Fret not—I waited more than two hundred Years for you. I would gladly wait two hundred more for the briefest Moment in Your arms.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

 

Miss Mills,

I was Skeptical of the small, buzzing device. I did not understand its purpose, when God has Graced me with a multitude of methods by which I may deliver pleasure. When I saw the Prodigious effect it had upon you it, I felt a small, unkind worm of Jealousy against this  _Plastic_  toy _._ Yet when you pressed its throbbing tip against my own Body—at once, I understood its Allure, and welcome it to our Bed without reservation.

Yours,

Ichabod. 

* * *

 

Crane,

You get this look sometimes. Guess people would call it a faraway look, but it’s not that—it’s a long ago look. I know you must be missing so many things, like maybe your favorite horse or how clear the air used to be back before all our smog. But more than anything, I know you’re missing her. 

I want you to know that it’s okay. We can talk about it, if you want. Or not, if you want. But I’m here. If you need me. Always.

A.M.

* * *

 

 

Abbie,

If pressed to choose, I would place the  _Car_ amongst the most stunning of modern inventions. Certainly the  _Smart Phone_ and the  _Refrigerator_ have their merits, but the ability to travel a hard day’s ride in a mere hour amazes.

Despite its marvels, I found it sadly Lacking for our activity last night. Too cramped by far for my long limbs, with flesh cleaving unpleasantly to “Leather” (I strongly suspect it is Counterfeit) upholstery, it was an altogether inconvenient affair.

And yet your Grace and abundant Charms soothed every irritant and helped me find wonder and hilarity in even the most inelegant of moments. Wherever you lead, my Abbie, I shall follow, for Enchantment surely awaits.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

To attempt to lift fine grains of rice with two sticks is unremitting Madness. We must both accept that the skill will ever remain beyond me. And so, for the purposes of eating our excess rice from last evening’s sumptuous Feast, I have abandoned your infernal _Chopsticks_ in favor of the much more logical and efficient Spoon, and will debate the topic no more.

However, I do marvel at Lucky Kitchen’s ingenious Folding Boxes. Further, their delectable _Honey Walnut Shrimp_ , eaten with a proper Fork, would surely rival the Ambrosia of Mount Olympus.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

I do not Doubt that, at times, my visage is o’ertaken by a “Long Ago Look” as you so wisely dub it. But I can assure you, it is not a horse that I meet in moments of quiet Reverie.

My cavalry horse – though it was never mine so much as it belonged to the regiment and was entrusted to my use – was called Cassia, for it shared the color of its muddling brown coat with the pungent import. As you may imagine, the name reflected its Spicy comportment as well. While other horses in its stable accommodated even the most insecure rider, content to transport fresh, youthfully coiffed young women or aged, fragile gentlemen, mine would stubbornly resist all but the most iron lead, which I was hard-pressed to provide. Insistent exhortations, desperate Pleas for cooperation, even the Angriest of heel-jabs – nothing could persuade the creature to bend its will. Countless times it stomped my boot, only to lash my face with its whip of a tail. Once it bucked me clean off and left me to marinate in a Bog. The fetid odor clung to me even after repeated scrubbing.

Indeed, it is a rare day that I neglect to send praise Heavenward for the invention of the modern _Car_. For it never stops to munch tall grasses, nor flings the imperfect rider from his saddle, nor petulantly refuses to Budge when taken by an ornery Whim. Let the villainous Horsemen ride: I will happily arrive in a Car.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

Off in 10 minutes. What’s the plan for tonight?

A.M.

 

Within moments of your arrival, I shall remove your _T-shirt_ and _Jeans_ as I gently press you back against your waiting Pillows. My eager fingers shall wind themselves beneath the lace of your Undergarments as my lips seek your long, elegant throat. Perhaps I shall Suckle, perhaps Lick, endeavoring to quiet my mounting Desperation even as I strive to inspire your Impatience.

Shall I continue? Or would you rather learn the Fruition of my plan In Person?

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

Crane, I don’t know what you’re up to, but seriously, stop with the eyebrows.

A.M.

 

You discovered my _Kink_ , and as Turnabout is indeed Fair Play, I am determined to discover and subsequently Serve yours with creative Abandon.

Did you perhaps join the Officers of Justice in order to wield Handcuffs with impunity?  

Yours,

Ichabod.

 

Nope.

A.M.

 

Given your delight, and mine, when you tug at my hair, perhaps it is the Infliction of Pain that titillates you. I would not condemn you, and would attempt to Satisfy, although I admit the thought inspires some measure of Trepidation.

Yours,

Ichabod.

 

Really not.

A.M.

 

Is it somehow associated with garments? Yours, perhaps, or mine?

Yours,

Ichabod.

 

Getting warmer.

A.M.

 

Ah, of course. I shall have my Great Coat _dry cleaned_ forthwith, in anticipation of the Erotic Feats it will accomplish in the coming days.

Yours,

Ichabod.

 

Now you’re talking.

A.M.

* * *

 

I can’t seem to call you Ichabod when we’re working. I don’t know why – just feels wrong. But when you swirl your tongue inside me until everything else in the world falls away, whispering your name feels exactly right.

A.M.

* * *

 

Who would not wish to Shield his Beloved from the ravages of these battles we wage? As the flames grow or the bullets fly, I do lament that you stand in Harm’s Way. And yet, cherishing your astounding Bravery and your patient Strength as I so fervently do, I know it is my Privilege to fight by your side.

…And to field the spending of your excess _Adrenaline_ after the battles are won.

Yours,

Ichabod.


	10. Chapter 10

Echoes of sensation taunt me – of your deep purrs of Bliss in my ears, of your trembling Thighs about my shoulders, of your indescribably sweet flavor upon my eager Tongue.

I can think of nothing else, Abbie, but how I long to Taste you again.

Yours in desperation,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

 

Believe me, I’m not complaining. You in nothing but a towel, with your hair down and starting to dry? And a few drops of water still clinging to your skin?  That was damn nice to wake up to.

It’s just a shame you got dressed before I could undress you…

A.M.

 

Please accept my apologies, Miss Mills. Had I known, I would have lingered conspicuously. Tomorrow?

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

 

Crane,

Sometimes when I’m with you, I feel guilty. Because you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, but you’re only here because of the worst thing that ever happened to you. Doesn’t seem fair.

Ignore me. Shouldn’t write after I’ve had a few beers.

A.M.

 

Your compassion does you credit, my Beloved Witness. There can be little doubt that we have each suffered. Indeed, often it is I who mourns the Melancholy in your eyes when you think I do not see. But I pray, do not grieve for me. When I am in your arms, God’s Bitter cup turns to honey in my mouth, and despite my losses, I know that I am Blessed above all men.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

We did not have a cordial introduction, your  _Handcuffs_ and I. I rankled in their cold clutches, powerless and hobbled like an unruly animal. When at last you Freed me, I vowed that I would never again don such Shameful bracelets.

But last night proved that I was too Hasty in my assessment. It appears that under more Genteel circumstances, I quite Welcome captivity.

Yours,

Ichabod. 

* * *

 

Your Hips sinuously swaying to the beat of cacophonous drums, arms arched Gracefully above your head, eyes closed in Euphoria, dim lights caressing your skin…

It looked nothing at all like the _Dancing_ I once knew, all stiff spines and begloved hands. But oh, you were a veritable Terpsichore, lovely and sensual, your every motion leaving me bursting with desire. When at last I took you in my arms, glowing and panting with exertion, I could taste the very Music on your lips.

Perhaps next time, I shall find the courage to join you in this strange new Dance.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

Crane,

Some weird fucking troll thing jumped me on patrol tonight. Don’t worry—it’s dead, I’m fine.

I’ve never told you this, but something about killing supernatural baddies guns my motor. It’s gotta be the adrenaline rush, right? You never feel more alive than when you’ve cheated death? Don’t know, but right now I’m wet and waiting for you at my place. 

A.M.

 

* * *

 

 

The world is vast, and Evil relentless in its Ambition. The only weapon any of us has is a faint Light upon the surface of a dusky Abyss. What are we in the face of Death? How are we to fight the most Ancient and Intractable of forces? This mission of ours is a fool’s errand, Abbie. How can one but believe that Darkness will prevail?

Yours, for what my service is worth,

Ichabod.

 

I know what you’re going through. You know I do – you kept me calm when I went through it.

Here’s the thing: The world _is_ huge and evil _is_ mean and hungry and really damn old, and there are just the two of us witnesses. It feels impossible — no one knows that better than me. But I also know that we aren’t the only two people with lights. There are so many good people in the world, Crane. More than you or I even know.

You’re feeling hopeless right now. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last. But there are two of us for a reason. Come home and I’ll be strong enough for us both tonight.

A.M.

* * *

 

Crane,

When I was dating, guys used to pull all those “chivalry” moves on me. Opening the car door, pulling out my chair, even had one dude put his jacket over a puddle for me which was just weird. It always felt fake, like they were only doing it to earn brownie points.

But you never act like you deserve a cookie for pushing aside a tree branch or offering me a hand. You make it all seem effortless, like you do all these polite things without thinking, but I know it’s the opposite. You’re  _always_ thinking and looking out for me.

So, thanks. For having my back all the time, not just on the battlefield.

A.M.

* * *

 

 

We knew from the start that our Destinies were entwined. But oh, how little we then suspected the Bliss we would know when our bodies, too, joined as One.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

 

You are an endlessly unraveling Riddle. Even these many months since our first Consummation, each coupling yields new Discoveries—a tiny patch of heretofore unexplored flesh which, with proper Stimulation, yields euphonic sighs; a clever trick with your tongue which leaves me Shattered; the way your skin tastes when the sun Kisses it ‘ere I do.

If we two are Blessed to live a hundred years, a thousand years, I feel I should never learn all your Secrets. That mystery makes me Love you all the more.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

 

Jenny insists I send you this texjht and that you must walk me home even though I am [erfECTLY SOBER AND SHE IS AN ASS.

Ich

 

Be there in five. Have Jenny make you a cup of coffee.

A.M.

 

* * *

 

 

It pleases me to imagine your countenance as you read my more Brazen missives. You so little betray emotion—I daresay at times you are as inscrutable as a Scot—yet still, in my mind’s eye your eyebrow Quirks delicately as you spy the parchment on your kitchen block. Perhaps your Tongue sweeps ‘cross your bottom lip in anticipation as you unfold the letter, your eyes widening as you study the lines written for you with such Devotion. And perhaps my scrawlings inspire a faint flutter of Heat, from your smooth cheek to the apex of your Venusian delight.

Most of all, sweet Abbie, I hope you smile and know that you are Loved most ferociously.

Yours,

Ichabod. 


	11. Chapter 11

In the disjointed Cacophony of this modern world, Abbie, your Love is a violin’s soaring Descant, an ever-winding Melody that soothes my very soul.

Yours,

Ichabod.

* * *

 

My dream, if we are so fortunate as to prevail, is to retire with you to a secluded Valley under a wide sky. We would build a home with our own hands, nurture a flock of sheep, sow plump vegetables and fields of blond wheat. We would make a blissfully ordinary life. And when the day bends toward night, we would sit together on a porch settee, hands entwined, and watch the Horizon’s pink flame.

Yours,

Ichabod.

 

Hey, if we’re dreaming, let’s at least do it right.

After we prevent the apocalypse, a grateful billionaire gives us a nice place in Hawaii. Stocked bar and a long, secluded stretch of beach. You embrace shorts and sandals, I trade in my car for a surf board, and we become experts at ocean sex.

A.M.

* * *

 

Miss Mills,

I pray you’ll excuse my Outburst this afternoon and, if I may try your patience further, attend my Explanation.

Please understand, the blond thief’s brazen ogling drew my Ire. You were, perhaps, too attentive to the matter at hand to notice how the rascal’s gaze draped like so much satin over the Curve of your Hip and, lewd as he was, your Breast. He might as well have laid his hands upon you there in the alley, so completely did he Memorize your form.

He is a proven Marauder and there’s the truth of it. That he possesses Expertise and a valuable _Network_ may also be true, but he is first a filthy Rogue and a shameless Villain. On your behalf, I will remain quietly vigilant.

Yours,

Ichabod.

 

Crane,

I get that you were jealous but you need to find yourself some chill. You’re the only filthy Rogue I’m interested in.

A.M.

* * *

Miss Mills,

I have discovered a parcel in your _armoire_ marked “Victoria’s Secret.” Curiosity being chief among my vices and my virtues, I could not help but peer inside in order to unravel this Lady’s mysteries. Imagine my puzzlement when I discovered only a diaphanous Wisp of scarlet silk. Even by today’s lax Sartorian standards, I must pronounce the garment shocking. It is nearly Sheer, with its neck cut nearly to the navel and the hem scarce above that.

Certainly you are free to make your own wardrobe decisions, and I shall defend your Honour regardless, but I urge you to reconsider this dress. I fear the whispers it may provoke, and I should hate to see your good name sullied when I well know you are a woman of the greatest Virtue.

Yours,

Ichabod.

 

Crane,

It’s not meant to be worn on the street. See you tonight. :)

A.M.

* * *

 

Crane,

You must say  _lieutenant_  a hundred times a day. Most of the time, I barely notice (though I still wonder why the hell you put an “f” in there). But when we’re alone, and you growl the word all gruff and needy? Oh yeah. I notice that.

Other people can stick with bae and honey. I’ll be your leftenant any day.

A.M.

* * *

Crane,

I have fucking had it with the puzzles and the impossible mission and getting zero help. God is a shitty CO. How about some feedback? A meeting? Direct instructions? Because really, we could easily be a couple of dupes running around putting out fires He couldn’t care less about. And how does this not bother you?

Yours in blasphemy,

A.M.

 

Abbie,

I know as well as you what it is to wrestle with God. For weeks after I awoke, I turned my eyes to hollow heavens and beseeched our absent Creator for a sign He had not forsaken me in the wilderness. I was met with resounding silence, which only intensified my anger. I risk body and soul for Him, yet the Divine could not be arsed to send so much as a single white dove to reassure me of His constancy.

And yet, even at the depths of my despairing, I had you. God sent me you as he sent Moses the pillar of cloud and flame, to be my guide and my comfort. And, if I may be so bold, I believe I am meant to be yours. So long as we two stand side by side, I shall never doubt that God keeps faith with us.

Yours in all things,

Ichabod. 

* * *

 

Abbie,

I remember, as if it were yesterday, that the Azure sky shone stark against ruddy Autumn leaves.

I had struggled daily not to betray how entirely smitten I was. I scowled when I glanced at you, even as my heart soared simply to be near you. But my Gruff Charade proved impossible to maintain, and that crisp afternoon, I finally gave it up.

We stopped at a Coffee Booth in the square and, knowing my preference for a delectable Sweet, you ordered for me a _Chai Latte_. I tasted the steaming brew, as comfortingly delicious as you knew it would be. Our eyes met, and held – my momentary delight yielding to the deeper Longing I had taken such pains to hide. And to my astonishment, your gaze announced as clearly as any spoken Declaration that you felt the same.

Neither of us spoke. You took my hand, as you had done before, but this time you threaded your fingers between mine. No matter that our first kiss was weeks in the offing; I trace the birth of our Romance to that moment at the Coffee Booth.

Today is the anniversary of our hearts’ Epiphany. The sky may be Lapis again, the leaves may turn once more to brittle Fire on the branch, but I have been Irrevocably transformed by the Marvel of your Love.

Yours for the rest of my days,

Ichabod.

* * *

Crane,

Huh, it  _is_ our anniversary. Guess time flies when you’re saving the world. 

 

The date might have slipped my mind, but I haven’t forgotten that first day. You remember it as this big moment of our eyes meeting and just knowing, but I don’t remember it that way. I don’t even remember thinking about it. I just remember being so happy in that September sunshine and wanting to share it with you. So I reached out. And there you were, like you always are. It wasn’t until we’d been strolling along like that for a few minutes that I even realized that maybe it should be weird. Only it wasn’t. I’ve never looked back.

We’ve gone through a lot since then, good times, bad times, times when you couldn’t figure out the modern world and I couldn’t figure out you. But even with all the shit we’ve dealt with, I wouldn’t change a thing. It’s all worth it to have you as my partner in every possible sense of the word. Happy anniversary, baby.

Yours,

Abbie


End file.
